


Everything Looks Better with a View

by PurpleSugarQuills



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hermione Granger & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, New York City, Pansy Parkinson Swears a Lot, Smut, everyone is garbage at feelings, parkweasel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29696901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleSugarQuills/pseuds/PurpleSugarQuills
Summary: Pansy leads a very busy, very fulfilling life in New York City.She doesn't need anything more to fill her time, and she definitely doesn't need to be distracted by Percy Weasley.But she is, and she hates herself for it. Until she doesn't anymore.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley, mentioned Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	Everything Looks Better with a View

Pansy Parkinson stretched in an unfamiliar bed. White sheets with a decadent thread count tangled around her legs. She opened her eyes and sat up, facing a window thousands of feet above a glowing sea of traffic and nightlife.

“It’s a million-dollar view, eh, Pans?”

Her jaw tightened, eyes narrowing at the skyline. Draco Malfoy called her Pans. Daphne Greengrass. Theodore _fucking_ Nott. Wall Street bankers with crew cuts and crooked smiles did _not_ call her Pans. Even if it was 10 o’clock on a Thursday night and she was in their bed, admiring their view.

“I’ve seen better.” Pansy shrugged, the sheets slipping down her shoulders and chest to pool around her waist. She was still wearing her blush balconette. She wasn’t wearing any knickers.

The man beside her snorted. “Sure, sweetheart.”

She hummed and got to her feet, casting one last look at the sprawling skyline before setting off to find her clothing.

“Thanks for the sex, but I need to be going, Jake.”

“It’s James.”

Pansy had a good memory. She also knew when a man needed to be put in his place.

James pillowed his hands behind his head and watched her drag a cream dress up over her thighs and hips. Then, she slid into her nude heels, leaving his flat and his view and his nicknames behind her.

The view of the city from her own flat-- _apartment_ \--wasn’t as impressive, but she admired the twinkling lights as she fixed herself a vodka tonic.

Pansy’s life in New York was a series of days packed with tidy routine. She awoke with the sunrise to attend spin class at a posh studio in midtown four mornings a week. She drank cold pressed juice on the walk to work, spent her day laboring as a PR rep at MACUSA, spent her evenings drinking vodka tonics and reading everything from new policy to foreign laws to gossip magazines all to stay on top of her game. Then, before bed, she had a very complicated 25-minute skincare routine that left her skin glassy and ready to face the next day.

Everything was purposeful. Everything was precise.

And sometimes, everything was exhausting.

But she got to fall asleep in the city that never slept, and she got to work in the bustling Magical Congress where she was well respected. She had a lacquer desk, a trio of tufted chairs, and a few gold baubles to break up the otherwise clean, white lines of her office.

On Friday morning, a flutter of interoffice memos zipped through her open door to settle into a neat stack on the corner of her desk. Plucking the parchment off the top, Pansy read over some drivel regarding the MACUSA annual awards gala.

Her eyes darted from the memo to the letter she’d been drafting when a series of knocks sounded at her door.

“Come in,” Pansy called, not looking up.

“Miss Parkinson, I have your lunch,” her assistant said.

Pansy blinked. Was it that late in the day already? She usually took her salad at her desk; picking at microgreens and julienned radishes while she worked.

“Oh! And I have you seated at tomorrow’s gala with one of your school friends.” Her assistant flashed a wide smile, the kind that showed far too many teeth for Pansy’s liking. “ _The_ Hermione Granger!”

“Granger isn’t one of my school friends. She’s fucking one of my school friends--there’s a difference.”

“Well...” Her assistant shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. “There are a few other guests from the British Ministry who will be receiving awards. If you’d like, it might not be too late to see if I could have you moved--”

“No. Sitting with Granger is fine.”

Pansy’s attention returned to stacks of parchment piling in front of her. Her eyes moved across the gala’s events before deciding her efforts would be better spent on formulating a plan for a judiciary with a penchant for women far too young for his station. That seemed more worthier of her time than thinking about attending an awards gala with “the” Hermione Granger.

  
  
  


….

  
  
  
  


Weekends in New York were Pansy’s favorite. Sushi, manicures, cocktails with acquaintances she couldn’t stand.

She didn’t date, but she had a vivid imagination and a lovely vibrator--translucent and purple with six settings--and if she ever had a craving for dick, she never had an issue finding any.

There were Muggle bars full of Wall Street bankers in crisp suits. Not to mention the wizarding part of New York--a spot to grab a decent cocktail and a somewhat decent cock if the mood struck.

Pansy blamed James’ unsatisfactory performance and his calling her _sweetheart_. There was no other reason she needed to be at the ponciest bar at the ponciest hotel in the ponciest strip of wizarding NYC this soon after a shag.

She ordered a vodka tonic with a squeeze of lime, and was just fitting her lips around the rim when a voice to her left spoke.

“You were a Prefect.”

The accent was clipped and familiar--British with a careful, almost haughty inflection. She shifted in her seat. She hadn’t been with a Brit in ages, and she was feeling sentimental.

Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Percy Weasley and all notions of sentiment flew from her head.

She hummed because she _had_ been a Prefect. She didn’t say anything because there was nothing more to say.

“And now you work in Public Relations here in the states.”

“I do.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth but didn’t linger.

“Are you in town for the gala?” she asked, brushing her fingers through her fringe and trying not to notice how fit the most boring Weasley looked in a charcoal suit.

“I am.”

Pansy frowned. Never once in her existence had she found herself tempted to fuck a Weasley, and yet… Well, there was something different about this one. Something far more refined than the younger siblings she’d been acquainted with.

She crossed her legs on the stool, turning slightly toward him.

“Are you receiving an award?” she asked.

He lifted his whiskey to his lips and took a delicate sip. Pansy took notice of his neat, trim nails and long fingers.  
  
When he set his glass down on the surface of the bar, Percy replied, “I’m accepting an award on behalf of my team. It’s an honor that MACUSA has esteemed foreign policies that have helped guide US politics worthy of notice.”

Pansy’s lips pressed tight. She’d always thought it felt a bit like MACUSA was kissing arse.

“If you don’t mind me asking, I’m curious. What made you decide to move to New York? Was there a reason you wanted to apply your talents to American politics?”

 _Talents._ Pansy shivered. And with an easy smile, she replied, “I like bad tea and good pizza.”

There were other reasons--things she didn’t dwell on like the absence of scorn she faced in the states. Some of her friends had stayed in England to carve out better lives for themselves after the war, but Pansy put an ocean between herself and her past.

Some might accuse her of running away, but she wasn’t. She was marching in the other direction all while wearing six-inch heels.

But the man in front of her reminded her of everything she missed about England…

He was bottled refinement. Proper and careful and coiled tight. A perfectly pressed three-piece suit and auburn hair cut tight, a bit longer on top without a hair out of place. His glasses were perched high on his nose, his eyes blue and unyielding beneath them.

But there was contrast to his meticulous appearance in the soft, almost friendly spray of freckles across his nose. Like the one part of himself he couldn’t quite hammer into control, smack in the middle of his face.

Pansy bit her bottom lip, teasing the flesh, letting it pop out slowly slick with moisture from her teeth. Percy’s eyes dropped to her mouth again. She fought the edges of a smile as it tugged at her cheeks.

 _Good_. He wasn’t completely unshakable.

Shoulders back, Pansy ran a manicured nail around the rim of her glass. Percy displayed more control than she was used to. She wasn’t above playing games, but she didn’t often stoop to such menial tactics for a shag.

But despite her efforts, Percy’s eyes didn’t linger on her fingers. He just picked up his whiskey and took another sip.

It was almost like he’d forgotten about her. He didn’t tug at the threads of their conversation, didn’t cast her any lingering looks.

Pansy sipped her drink until there was nothing but ice at the bottom of her glass, watched the way Percy’s throat worked as he swallowed, and wondered why she didn’t want to leave his side.

But biting her lip and flirting had proved fruitless, and even though she wasn’t desperate…

Pansy set her empty glass on the bar and leaned forward, casually resting her weight on her elbows, but in reality practicing one of the deadliest moves in a woman’s arsenal. She shifted, the neckline of her dress sliding lower. Taking a breath deep from her lungs, her breasts pushed up and together.

She caught the flicker of his eyes, the slight widening of them behind his glasses before he forced his attention to some spot behind the bar, his features an iron mask of disinterest.

Pansy steamed.

Percy took another drink and asked like he hadn’t surreptitiously avoided her very inviting cleavage, “Do you work closely with Allen Withersby?”

Pansy did _not_ want to talk about Withersby, she wanted to run her fingers through Percy Weasley’s hair.

“I do.”

“He’s invited me to give a speech at the gala.”

She feigned nonchalance, but her eyes burned with disbelief. Was Percy Weasley physically incapable of flirting?

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, you could come up to my room and review my speech.”

Fucking _finally._ For a moment she worried she’d lost her touch.

“I could be convinced to come up to your room. If you ask nicely.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Please, Miss Parkinson, will you come up to my room?”

“Yes.” It was breathier and more desperate than she would’ve liked.

Percy set a handful of coins on the bar top, straightened his coat sleeves, and then guided her toward the lifts with the gentle press of his hand on her back.

His room had an amazing view of the city. Skyscrapers lit from within, burning against the night sky.

When she turned, he was so close she could smell his cologne.

She waited, just breathing his scent, feeling the burn of his gaze as his eyes ticked across her features. She knew her French bob had a slight wave to it. Knew her makeup had been charmed to stay in place. She reveled in how even with her heels lending her inches, he still towered over her.

Percy extended something in her direction, and she stared at the rolled parchment, words momentarily failing her.

When they returned, Pansy snapped, “What the fuck is this?”

“My speech.”

“You invited me up to your room. To look over your speech.”

He stared at her like _she_ was the daft one.

“That is what I said, isn’t it?” His brow furrowed. “Were my intentions unclear.”

“I--” She simmered in mortification as a Weasley--a Weasley whose cock she very much wanted to feel slip between her lips--rejected her. “You don’t want to fuck me.”

Percy paused for a moment. His eyes were blue behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and they slid over her figure, lingering on the hem of her dress halfway down her thighs. Thighs she knew were slim and inviting thanks to good genes and spin class and--

“I’m in New York on business. This room is being paid for by the Ministry.” He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “That would be highly inappropriate, Ms. Parkinson.”

“But you want my opinion. On your speech.”

“You work in the PR division with Allen Withersby. I thought…” He inclined his head. “Is there a problem?”

“No-- Yes. No. I just have the sudden urge to be anywhere but here,” Pansy tutted, and spinning on her heel she left, slamming the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is outlined, so hopefully I can get the next bit up soon. It won't be a huge story or anything, just a couple chapters.
> 
> ParkWeasel is such an unexpected ship I’ve found myself sailing. There’s something very fun and sexy about these two! So thanks so much for your patience as I try my hand writing these two!


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